Inherent Chaos

  Inherent Chaos

  Terry Lloyd Vinson

  Published by Rogue Phoenix Press, LLP for Smashwords

  Copyright © 2022

  ISBN: 978-1-62420-685-6

  Electronic rights reserved by Rogue Phoenix Press, LLP. The reproduction or other use of any part of this publication without the prior written consent of the rights holder is an infringement of the copyright law. This is a work of fiction. People, locations, and business establishments even those with real names, have been fictionalized for the purposes of this story.

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Dedication

  To my wife, Liza, for her eternal patience and understanding

  Prologue I

  August 1982

  Chandler, Arizona

  The interior of the payphone booth reeked of rat excrement and stale BO, the outside temperature still hovering around the mid-eighties despite the late-evening’s descending cloak of darkness. The man held the phone’s handle, greasy at the touch and smelling of booze-smeared spittle, several inches from his parted lips as to avoid potential disease. At the moment the only requirement was to listen, as even if he had attempted to interrupt, finding the appropriate response had thus far eluded him, the party on the opposite end was on a roll that had yet to reach its ranting, raving peak. The payphone sat at the corner of unnamed streets bookended by equally identity-less warehouse buildings, the shadows each cast like the colossal skeletal remains of some ancient, fossilized dinosaur.

  As matters stood, the man had little choice except to endure the fiery sermon and, in the aftermath, reach a decision and seal it via a verbal contract. Drenched in sweat, temples pounding, heart racing, his thoughts as scattered as the blowing trash outside the booth, he caught himself drifting in and out of what passed as reality but felt anything but, thus inadvertently redacting portions of the verbal barrage assaulting his senses.

  “…course this one denies any knowledge of his kin’s past shenanigans, much less carrying on the tradition. Hey, I can be open-minded enough to buy that second part but not so much the first, ‘cause you know, said shenanigans are admittedly passé in this day and age. All that said, he stinks of deception, father. Reeks of it, in fact. Just like all the others. They have their skills, we have ours, right? We can peel away that first layer and sniff the corruption beneath, yes? You might not admit it, but you know I’m preachin’ the gospel. Anyhow, what I’m offering is a one-time, blue-light special, you dig? After tonight, you can trail me from here to the dark side of Juniper and will find nothin’ but a stone-cold print and you know it.”

  A wild, cackling giggle escaped from between the man’s badly chapped lips at the comical misuse of ‘Jupiter’ and he was forced to briefly hoist the phone above his head to avoid spewing forth additional, unintentional mockery. Amazing, he mused while using a clenched fist to jab his own thigh, how correct the use of the French word for outdated while simultaneously committing the spectacular butchery of a well-known planetary phrase, all in the same blessed sentence. What kind of horrid public school infused such inconsistency? He should know, but sadly had no clue. Upon resetting the receiver against a bare ear, he’d make sure to take a rubbing alcohol-soaked Q-Tip to it later, he found he’d missed little of consequence in terms of the prattling tirade squawking from the opposite end. For the most part, the bulk was nauseatingly familiar.

  “…always be several steps ahead, especially considering the tracker really doesn’t have the guts to follow-through, right daddy-oh? I know your heart ain’t in this. Still, I felt a tugging. A pull, an obligation, to clue you in on tonight’s proceedings. As obsessions go…”

  The man snickered under his breath, so that’s why the note was left tacked to his apartment door, requesting his presence to answer some random phone call in the crappiest part of town. All this time, he’d figured it some crank pimp advertising his whorish wares to some lonely, pale sad-sack he’d deemed down-on-his luck and looking for action.

  “…overwhelming it was, kept me up countless nights, and you know I’m usually one to sleep like a boulder even if live fire was passing overhead. Maybe there is a higher power behind it. A merciful deity with a soft spot for our clan and the suffering we’ve endured,” There was a lengthy pause, shattered by a piercing, maniacal laugh. Psyche. “More likely some warped puppet-master bored with the whole shebang. I mean, how long has this gone on, right? Kinda like one of those Broadway shows that’s long since outlasted it’s welcome.”

  “Regardless father, whether it ends at all depends entirely on you.”

  A full thirty seconds of silence cued the man that it was finally, mercifully, his time at bat. His throat and lips equally parched, he closed his eyes against the Nuclear-strength migraine that felt as if a twenty-penny nail was being slowly hammered into the base of his skull and croaked out what he prayed would be the beginning of a successful rebuttal.

  “You know, deep down to the core, what you’re doing is insanity defined. Think about it. I mean, really concentrate. This isn’t about them. It’s about you. Your urges. Your wants. Your needs. You enjoy it. Revel in it. The innocent have no voice, no defense. Not to a deranged force of chaos who refuses to listen. Do me a favor. Remove all the supernatural…hooey and tell me how this…unending spree isn’t just cold-blooded eradication for eradication’s sake. A bad seed doing what bad seeds do, staining the soil red. Please elaborate. I’m listening.”

  The man winced at what might’ve been a mistake of colossal proportions, that of tossing the mic away so recklessly. Unbelievably, the expected volley never came, only the mild static of a mediocre connection. To this, the man jumped back on the speech train with an overzealousness that was overtly comical.

  “Exactly. No magical ending to be had, no matter how many you eliminate. Terminating the innocent is straight out homicide, perpetrated by someone that, in the end, can only be described by any logical mind as criminally psychotic. There is no…justifying this, no matter how you spin it, and there isn’t a court on the planet that’ll buy what you think passes as an acceptable agenda for murder. Now…” he concluded after a lengthy sigh, falling to one knee with his back pressed against the booth’s smudged and slightly cracked glass, “…for god’s sake, just cut them loose. That is, if there truly is anyone there to be freed.”

  Instantly regretting speaking aloud, a final, frustration-fueled accusation he realized should’ve remained parked in the mental hanger, the man’s lips parted for an emergency reversal but was cut off by a growling yelp that effectively ended all hopes of a miracle save.

  “Say what, daddy-oh? Ohhh, I got it. A classic fake-out, you surmise? Nothing more than a rehearsed ruse to get you here? Hell’s belle’s, old man, if all we wanted was a little forced facetime, we’d be there already. It ain’t like you could ever be resourceful or clever enough to avoid such a meeting.”

  In that moment, regrets be damned, the man lost all semblance of hope, as deep down he knew this was no bluff, no fraudulent net of deceit being weaved in his honor.

  “Fine. If you truly do promote practicing what you preach,” he spewed angrily through gnashed teeth, his free hand curled into a shaking, groping claw, “What say we just leave this between the two of us, as it should be, and leave the rest of the clan be? Pretty obvious you know where to fin
d me and after all, wouldn’t I alone be considered the deal breaker, the ultimate catch?”

  The mild static dominated yet again, but for only a scant few seconds, wherein the man collapsed onto the other knee with the forefinger and thumb of his free hand digging into the area of his left temple like a desperate prospector for that elusive gold nugget.

  “I’m more than happy to meet you halfway on this thing, but contrary to popular opinion, I’m clever enough not to walk blindly anywhere near your vicinity,” he said wearily, while resembling a pleading, hopelessly broken man offering up a final prayer.

  “Listen, for god’s sake, can’t you understand that this has to st…”

  “M-my k-kids are…they’re…ti-tied up in t-the b-basement. Pl-please, if y-you don’t c-come, the-they’re n-next.”

  The stuttering intrusion sent an icy chill up the man’s sweat-soaked spine. The voice of a young man, late twenties, early thirties, and in great, unwholly unmanufactured distress.

  “Gene J-Junior is j-just turned si-six and little C-Connie is o-only f-f-four, for C-Christ’s sake. P-Please, f-for the love of g-god, do wha-wha…e-e-ever...”

  They broke off in a choking sob, following by a piercing, banshee shriek that mere mental anguish alone could never alone birth. No, this level of agony required assistance of a more physical nature, as in exposed flesh being flayed apart by the deep, slashing motion of a razor’s edge or perhaps a faint, barely audible puncture between one’s ribs by an icepick or maybe even the excruciating aftermath of a syringe’s piercing tip penetrating soft cornea. All these images and more flickered and flashed through the man’s fevered mind. Understanding oh so very well the sadistic capabilities on display, he knew that these were but a trio of similarly gruesome possibilities.

  As the screeching bray was abruptly and mercifully muted, the voice that followed was frighteningly void of all previous good humor or baiting sarcasm. It was, in fact, as cold and inhuman as the proclamation provided.

  “You’re eight minutes ride from the address I provided. If you’re not here in fifteen, well, then you’re as guilty as I. Try walking away and living with that one, old man.”

  The line went dead, the man’s planned rebuttal never to be.

  Allowing the handle to slip from his sweaty grip, to swing like a swaying noose on a severely twisted cord, he hugged his knees to his chest in a desperate attempt to quell a full-body shiver.

  “D-damn you! Damn you!” he screamed, head thrown back like a baying wolf, unsure if the target of said tirade was the threatening presence previously on the other end or himself, as there was little doubt of his choice between the pitifully limited options of stay or go. There could not be, as always, any form of law enforcement intervention. Too many mysteries laid out for solving. Far too many hidden skeletons packed into a very small closet space.

  As if to directly contradict this initial decision and thus disprove his very own theory of cowardly self-loathing, he leapt up and shot from the booth like a man afire, only to collapse in a heap with his right hand curled around the driver’s side door handle of his Chevy Nova.

  “I-I’m so…sorry. So very, very sorry,” he whimpered softly, his gut curdling with a heady dose of self-loathing and cowardice. For every pathetic excuse his tattered mind manufactured, the cold, bitter truth revealed self-preservation as the lone justification for allowing yet another family to die.

  He briefly considered that strictly taboo third option, but dismissed it just as quickly, as there could never be, under any circumstance, any form of police involvement. At the very least, he’d most likely be hauled in and tried as an accomplice of sorts, the mere thought of spending countless decades behind bars providing the most effective of vaccines for reckless, false bravado.

  Practically crawling into the Nova’s driver seat, the man checked his wristwatch and noted nearly five minutes had already passed since the call ended.

  Too late now even if I tried, he surmised gravely, using a bare arm to wipe away a buildup of mucus from both nostrils and his upper lip.

  He sat unmoving for another ten-plus minutes, as if timing the horrific events taking place approximately ten miles away in real time. Maybe, he prayed, pleaded and appealed, this time that the outcome would be different, that some form of mercy would be afforded. If not for the father, at least the children.

  At five-thirty AM, he picked up a copy of the morning addition and discovered yet again the utter folly of such outlandish pipe dreams.

  The tears he shed were as much for himself as the victims.

  Next time, he swore, next time I’ll stop it. Next time.

  As always, the hollowness of the promise echoed within his subconscious like the faded memories of a father’s frantic cries.

  Prologue II

  Present Day

  Turtle Bend, North Dakota

  Boone Lee Harrison, his left eye watering beneath a slightly sagging lid, discovered he was unable to maintain eye contact with the individual standing before him, instead forcing his gaze downward into his own lap, where intertwined fingers grew purple from the constant pressure being applied. It was taking great effort not to flash a wide, toothy grin, clap the aforementioned hands enthusiastically or, heaven forbid, giggle hysterically. As motivations went, perhaps the stoutest was the possibility, however miniscule, of being declared mentally incompetent and held for observation. The mere thought instantly doused the building flames of euphoria into a pile of wet, smoldering ashes.

  Palms growing increasingly moist as a fresh wave of inner heat bathed his worn insides, Boone succumbed to a brief fugue state, wherein he alone occupied a dark bubble of solitary confinement. Strange, he ruminated, how such a potentially double-edged sword felt so one-sided in the reveal’s aftermath. Fourth time was indeed the charm, he noted with great irony.

  “Of course, we will run additional tests to confirm the diagnosis, from which we will establish the proper timetable for treatment. I would suggest we begin this immediately. To be blunt, there appears to be little time to waste, additional testing aside.”

  “Yeah, sure doc. Got’cha,” he babbled in reply, snapping from the self-imposed daze with a tight-lipped grin of utter insincerity.

  The physician, a fortyish, grim-faced woman with close-set eyes that reflected through reading glasses which were perched atop a massive, pointy-tipped snout that any Jewish grandmother would be proud to claim, retrained all focus on the iPad balanced on her right palm, the forefinger of the left dancing a spastic jig atop its slick surface.

  “I understand these findings do appear to confirm previous diagnosis from your primary caregiver,” she continued, squinty eyes darting in time with the rapid movements of the continually probing digit.

  Boone, thoughts racing far from the cramped, atypically bland confines of the exam room, nodded silently, having instantly and effortlessly shifted into auto-depression mode, complete with labored sigh, forced swallow and slight nod of utter resignation.

  “Affirmative, doc. Gotta say, not exactly the update I was hoping for. Can’t say I’m overly surprised, mind you, but sometimes a faint portion of hope is all a man has left.”

  Reaching over, she applied a light, shamelessly perfunctory tap to his left shoulder, her squinty gaze never departing the iPad.

  “A natural response, Mister Harrison, under the circumstances, but let us not lose hope. Number one, in terms of overall health, you are without a doubt the healthiest person I’ve seen at this stage of the disease. Your vitals are uncharacteristically strong. You’ve lost almost no weight in the past month. Number two, I’m no quitter, no matter the diagnosis, and I expect my patients to follow suit. I hate to lose, Mister Harrison. That in mind, I’m planning a merciless, all-out assault on this disease, with as aggressive a strategy as modern medicine allows.”

  Harrison, having disconnected yet again, merely nodded amiably as she preached on, something about relocating to a hospital in Bismarck with the necessary equipment and staff t
o bravely stave off a final outcome so obviously set in stone, as in a grave.

  Approximately fifteen minutes of plotting, planning and scheduling later, to which itineraries were handed out and appointments made, Boone was allowed to depart amid a series of gracious nods and apathetic glances from the staff on hand, a few of which appeared at least partially earnest. Of course, he’d lied about having someone nearby to chauffer him off the hospital grounds. Rapidly failing eyesight and shaky reflexes aside, he flat refused to believe he was no longer capable of steering the Big Chief the three miles necessary to reacquaint its hulking fame back into the squared space of his condo’s reserved parking space.

  As was normally the case, early Fall at the tip of Turtle Bend, North Dakota, less than fifteen miles from the Canadian border, was akin to the dead of winter in the majority of the Midwest. A gusty, frigid breeze nearly freed Boone’s ballcap from his noggin as he zig-zagged painstakingly across the pothole ravaged, semi-paved lot. Early afternoon was rapidly mutating to dusk, wherein a sizeable snowfall was predicated, along with temperatures hovering near the single digits. The first of many cold-storage nights to come, he knew, but also one of the last he would ever endure.

  Upon securing himself into the driver’s seat of the Jeep Cherokee he had so lovingly referred to as ‘Heap Big Chief’, since its cash-only purchase nearly a decade previously from a used lot in Laramie, he inserted the key into the ignition with a badly shaking hand and leaned back to pause before turning the ignition. Staring unblinkingly into a relatively light band of snowflakes sailing horizontally past, a faint hitch shook his chest in a sudden burst, only to be trapped like dried bread at the base of his throat. Finally. The single word with twin meanings so dramatically different depending on how it was uttered and the situation at hand. Finally, blurted with resounding relief, as in at long last. Finally, mumbled with great duress or worse, numbing dread, as in this cannot be real. Like bone-deep cuts executed with expert precision from the sharpest of cutlery, Boone Harrison understood both meanings simultaneously and with surprising clarity. With a labored sigh inhaled and subsequently exhaled through tightly gritted teeth, he gripped the wheel with white-knuckled intensity in an attempt to divert the coming tide. In the end, it was akin to blocking a runaway freight with upraised palms. Once it hit, a schizophrenic’s template of mixed emotions the driving force, there was no holding back or controlling the severity. A paralyzing spasm and full-body shimmy wherein all use of limbs was lost, breathing relegated to choking, raspy croaks, clear mucus pouring from both nostrils in the spasmodic, hitching aftermath.